


ineffable meetings

by PunsAndRoses



Category: Good Omens (TV), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Good Omens Fusion, Gen, M/M, basically just traipsing through the GO Episode 3 cold open, brief mentions of suicidal attempts, wikipedia-levels of historical research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:35:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27604297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunsAndRoses/pseuds/PunsAndRoses
Summary: Sometimes, Aziraphale finds himself wondering what the Nephilim could have accomplished if God’s flood hadn’t wiped away all trace of them from the face of the earth. Every century or so, he gets his answer, even if he doesn’t know it.orThe Old Guard meets Good Omens. It’s a small world, and a handful of immortals running around are bound to cross paths with Earth’s resident angel and demon at some point in history. Perhaps more often than they realize.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 14
Kudos: 161





	ineffable meetings

**Author's Note:**

> So this is just a brain worm that wouldn't leave me ever since I watched The Old Guard movie. Basically me postulating that maybe ToG are living descendants of the Nephilim, who managed to have children before they were wiped out by God's flood. Don't come after me, genealogists, I don't claim to know how traits are passed down through bloodlines. 
> 
> Historical hijinx ensues! I tried to inject as much historical accuracy into the scenes from Episode 3's cold open as my patience for wikipedia articles would allow. If there are any errors, I'm well aware and I'm sorry.
> 
> Also I never read The Old Guard comics either so if there are any errors on that front too, then I'm sorry about that as well.

_ When people began to multiply on the face of the ground, and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that they were fair; and they took wives for themselves of all that they chose. Then the Lord said, "My spirit shall not abide in mortals forever, for they are flesh; their days shall be one hundred twenty years." The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went in to the daughters of humans, who bore children to them. These were the heroes that were of old, warriors of renown. _

_ — Genesis 6:1–4, New Revised Standard Version _

  
  


**Mesopotamia, 3004 BC. It begins.**

“Oy Shem! That unicorn is gonna make a run for it. Oh… no, it's too late. Too late!”

Aziraphale winced as Crawley yelled out, a thin, bony arm tracking the movement of the unicorn as it made an escape through the desert.

At that moment, an ominous roll of thunder overhead accompanied by the steady patter of rain, cemented the heavy feeling in Aziraphale’s gut. Of course he hadn’t told Crawley the real reason why God was sending the flood, it wouldn’t do to give Hell that kind of information. 

Still, he looked around at the dozens of non-believers still mocking Noah as he finished loading the last of the animals. There were women amongst them, and children, barely a few years old. 

Crawley’s previous statement echoed in his head and he forced himself to ignore it in favor focusing on his duty as a principality to carry out Her commands. The Nephilim needed to be wiped out, and this flood would see to that.

Beside him, Crawley was also looking at the dozens of innocents that would later become collateral damage. Even though he barely knew his demonic enemy, Aziraphale could see the half-formed plan in the demon’s snake-yellow eyes. A plan to save at least a handful of children from the worst of the flood. 

It would taste a lie to say that Aziraphale hadn’t been thinking the same thing himself. So he doesn’t feel too bad about turning around and pretending not to know what was going on in Crawley’s mind.

_ Just this once _ . He tells himself. He’ll only turn a blind eye to Crawley’s demonic work just this once. After the flood, all bets were off.

What Aziraphale doesn’t realize is that while Crawley smuggled a handful of women and children into the safety of the Ark through his own demonic miracle, some of that number were offsprings of the Nephilim themselves.

When the floodwaters receded and the Lord’s rainbow streaked bright and hopeful across a blue sky (horribly show-offy thing, if you ask Crawley), the children of the Nephilim go their separate ways in the new world.

\---

**Rome, 41 AD. Andy.**

Andromache had grown accustomed to living life as a soldier.

Just recently, when she proved her worth at the Gallic Wars, Julius Cesar promoted her to his personal guard before the empire disbanded his army. She was loathe to accept an offer that kept her within the constant scrutiny of mortals. But the last few hundred years of being alone had taken its toll on her, and being amongst fellow soldiers, even if she had to always stay on her guard, was a welcome change.

It was easy enough work, and every now and then, the odd assassination attempt made things interesting. Most of the time, she found herself bored out of her wits. So when she wasn’t on-duty at the Palace, she spent most of her time at the local inns or the Agora, learning the languages of the merchants either by trading with them, or outdrinking them.

Right now, the latter was taking place, with some spice-traders from the East who were spending the rest of the week in Rome before moving on to other parts of the empire. 

“Why would a beauty, such as you, choose the life of a soldier?” One of the merchants asked, his mangled Latin was difficult enough to understand without the inebriation from 5 jugs of the inn’s House Brown. 

“It is true!” The other one clamored, his hand creeping slowly across Andromache’s thigh, she swatted it away. The table burst into laughter.

“In my country,” the third one said, definitely the more sober of the bunch, “My people would treat you as a Goddess. Leave this life, and settle with me, beautiful one.”

She rolled her eyes at the flattery, “The life of a Goddess has no interest for me.” She said, remembering her stint as one, before picking up their empty jug and motioning for the servant girl at the counter to give them a refill.

When the woman failed to notice her, she heaved a sigh and walked to the back of the inn herself. 

In truth, tensions in Cesar’s court have been steadily growing the past months, and Andromache has keeping an ear out for where she might spend a new chapter of her life. If Cesar was killed, his personal guard would be executed, and that was the last thing Andromache wanted. 

She slammed the jug down at the counter, “Another jug of house brown, for my friends from the East over there!” She’ll buy them this last drink, then move on. Look for leads elsewhere, another day.

The barkeep noticed her at last and took her jug to the back to be refilled. 

“Still a demon then?”

The voice was unfamiliar but the statement sent a shiver down her spine and her hand reached toward her axe out of reflex. During the Gallic wars, one or two soldiers had seen her take a blow to the head, only to come back swinging as the wound stitched itself back together again. In the midst of battle, some of them had pointed to her and shouted “demon”. She thought she’d dispatched those witnesses, but if one was here in Rome--

“What kind of stupid question is that, ‘still a demon?’” 

The responding voice was equally as unfamiliar, and that was the only thing that made Andromache release the weapon sheathed at her back. Whoever was speaking, wasn’t speaking to her. Her ears strained to listen over the noise all around the inn. 

“What else am I going to be?” The second voice continued, “an aardvark?”

From her peripheral, she caught sight of two men chatting just beside her. She couldn’t see the face of the one nearest her, but he had a crop of rust colored hair and a silver-leafed chaplet encircling his head. His companion was his opposite in every way. The other man had a head of white blonde hair, that stuck about in soft curls, accompanied by the whitest toga Andromache had ever seen.

“In Rome long?”

“Just nipped in for a quick temptation.”

The words made no sense to her, so she only stayed long enough to make sure that they were purely talking to each other and had no idea who she was. When their topic carried them elsewhere (to Petronius’ oysters of all things) she took her refilled jug back to her table.

The next day, she spotted the red-haired stranger again, mingling amongst the Senators while Cesar was busy pouring over the slowly growing map of the Roman Empire. She remembered the strange conversation he had with his companion at the inn so Andromache kept a wary eye on him as he slithered about. 

Still, nothing happened and she finally allowed the incident to slip from her mind. She also never saw him or his pale companion again.

Three years later, word travelled fast about the murder of Julius Cesar, by that time Andromache had already bartered the first passage out of Rome. 

\---

**The Kingdom of Wessex, 537 AD. Quynh.**

It seemed as if everywhere they went there was fighting and dispute, so eventually it just became a matter of choosing new lands they haven’t visited yet. Although, Quynh was fairly sure that Great Britain was the worst of the lands she’s visited since allying herself with Andromache. Not so much because of the disputes, but because it was damp, ridiculously and annoyingly damp.

Right now, they were helping the local Celtic tribes reclaim some of their land from the Anglo-Saxxons, and from the moment they docked it had either been raining or foggy or both. Quynh felt suffocated by it all.

“You never said anything about the damp.” She grumbled while she and Andromache are keeping watch in the woods for any more of the Saxxon invaders. 

As if to prove her point, Andromache tossed aside the damp furs she was wearing. “You can set up your bed roll next to the fire tonight, would that appease you?”

Quynh smirked, “And I get to choose where we travel next.”

Andromache’s answering smile was enough to improve the situation. “I can accept those terms.”

Around them, the fog was growing heavier, and Quynh felt the thick chill of it seep through her clothes beneath the furs that the Celtics had given them. “How much longer do we have to stand watch?”

“Cyrnh said--”

Andromache’s reply was cut off by the sound of footsteps and the familiar clang of Saxxon armor. Just as they planned, Quynh quietly scaled the top of the tree they were leaning on while Andromache crouched lower into the grass, blending into the fog that permeated everything around them.

From her higher vantage point, Quynh could just make out the form of a lone knight, his squire, and a horse, wandering through the forest. She already had an arrow trained at his head when she heard him call out.

“Hello? I, Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round, am here to speak to the Black Knight.”

Quynh’s was just about to shoot the knight right between his eyes when the sound of more footsteps drew her attention behind. They were Celtics, accompanying a different Saxxon in full black armor. Quynh stowed her arrows and looked down at Andromache in confusion. There were clearly other forces at work here.

Andromache motioned for her to stay in the tree. For now, they would observe. 

“You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one.” The other Saxxon said, “But you have found your death.”

“Is that you under there, Crawley?” The first knight said, his tone going from cautious to confused in a matter of seconds. 

“Crowley.” The Black Knight replied, lifting the visor of his helmet to look his fellow Saxxon in the eye.

Quynh watched them converse. This wouldn’t have been the first time that small factions sought to doublecross their people or sell them out to the enemy. She’s been on both sides of that coin enough times to know that no one really ends up as the winner.

There was something different about this set-up, however. From the way they were speaking, down to their armor, Quynh was fairly sure that these two men were on opposite sides themselves. Still they spoke to each other as friends would. It was a strange sight for sure.

“Oh, our lot have better things to do than verifying compliance reports from Earth. As long as they get the paperwork, they seem happy enough.” The Black Knight--Crowley--said. 

Quynh felt her brow furrow in confusion. She looked down at Andromache to see if the conversation was making sense to her, but her companion looked just as lost and confused as she felt. 

“No! Absolutely not!” The one called Sir Aziraphale said, his voice turning indignant. Quynh reached for an arrow again. Raised voices usually led to violent outcomes.

“I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing.” Sir Aziraphale continued, “We’re not having this conversation. Not another word!” 

“Right,” Crowley said.

“Right!” Sir Aziraphale called back over his shoulder, already walking back toward his horse and squire. 

Quynh waited until both parties were completely gone before she hopped down from the tree to join Andromache. “What do you make of that?” she asked.

Beside her, the Scythian’s eyes were focused at the spot where the two knights had been conversing, something like frustration and confusion lining her face. Quynh looked up at her before reaching a hand and touching Andromache’s arm softly. “Is something the matter? Andromache?”

Finally their eyes met, and whatever had been plaguing her companion was gone now. Or rather, it was compartmentalized away. Quynh made a mental note to ask about it again, later.

“Do we tell Cyrnh what we saw here today?” she asked, fighting against a wave of shivers as the fog around them thickened and the sky grew steadily darker. It looked like there would be another thunderstorm that night.

“The men with the Black Knight,” Andromache said, “did you recognize them? Were the Cyrnh’s?”

Quynh shook her head, “Celts but not Cyrnh’s men. I’d wager they’re from one of the warring factions that Cyrnh told us about two weeks ago.”

Andromache nodded then turned to leave. “Our allegiance is with Cyrnh and his tribe. We help him.” The finality in her tone seemed to im[ly that the discussion was over for now. Quynh narrowed her eyes for the briefest moment before following suit. 

Later that evening, their bedrolls situated close to the fire for warmth, Quynh asked about the two knights again. This time, Andromache just shrugged, “There was something familiar about the whole situation, like I’d seen them before, but I couldn’t make out their faces with their helmets on so I can’t be sure.”

Quynh waited to see if there was more, Andromache just smirked to herself, and this time it was genuine. “Maybe I’m just getting too old for doublecrosses.” It was an old joke between them, one that had Quynh chuckling under her breath.

“I’m sure it won’t be the last time.” She answered wryly, before laying back into her bedroll and going to sleep.

That night, Quynh dreamt of a dark-skinned man with bright eyes, dying in the tumultuous waves of the ocean after he jumped ship, free at last. Only to awaken ashore, alone and alive. 

Before the month was out, they left Great Britain in search of their new companion. 

\---

**The Globe Theatre, London, 1601. Nicky.**

Nicolò didn’t bother hiding the disappointment in his face when he entered the theater to find it practically empty again. He had been on the receiving end of Andromache and Quynh’s taunts about his not-so-secret obsession with the rising playwright for a few years now. So when the team got the opportunity to take a short break between missions, he visited the theater almost every day.

Yusuf had come with him a few times, but his love had begged off for today. “You know I don’t like the sad ones.” He had said, kissing  Nicolò once before walking him to the door.

As he looked around, he saw one man who at least seemed as eager to be there as he did, and that made him feel a little better. Perhaps there was some hope for his friend yet. 

“ Nicolò !” He turned at the familiar voice and offered a smile to his friend.

“Hello William,” he greeted warmly, kissing him on both cheeks before turning to face the stage with him. Currently, the leading man was giving his monologue, to the boredom of most of the people present.

“It is a disaster!” Shakespeare said, mournfully, head in his hands. “Perhaps I should cease this production and focus on comedies until the end of my days.”

“Life isn’t always a comedy,”  Nicolò mused, “that’s what makes the stories you write very beautiful, my friend.”

“That may be true, but comedies put bread on my table.” Shakespeare said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I had thought that this would be one of my great ones, but alas, it is not meant to be.”

Nicolò gave him a bracing clap on his shoulder. “Do not lose hope yet, William, others might still take to this story.”

“Like who?”

Nicolò looked around and spotted his fellow patron from earlier, he was joined by another man now, one who was circling him as they spoke. “Like those gentlemen over there.” He said with a flourish of his hand. “Perhaps they will leave here and spread the word of your great work.” The last part he said with a laugh.

Shakespeare rolled his eyes, and then fixed him with such a challenging stare before walking off to the two gentlemen in question.

It was a hilarious sight, watching his friend cajole two random patrons. Now that he got a good look at them,  Nicolò marveled at how the two patrons were actually a study in opposites. He could only imagine what Shakespeare was telling them about the play, but whatever it was, it seemed to be working.

As he focused his own attention on the stage, he could see that actor break character for the briefest moment to argue with the playwright.  Nicolò winced. Perhaps the problem wasn't so much with his friend's story but with his choice in actors.

"No!" one of the gentlemen Shakespeare had spoken to, called out. His voice carrying in the almost empty theater. "You're very good! I love all the..." a cautionary glance was thrown toward Shakespeare, "--talking."

Nicolò snorted.

"And what does your friend think?" The actor onstage retorted.

The gentlemen in white grinned at the man beside him before his smile fell completely. "Oh he's not my friend. We've never met before. We don't know each other."

He was loathe to admit it, but these turn of events had already become more fascinating than the play. Not that he would ever tell Shakespeare that, perhaps Yusuf was on to something about only preferring the comedies.

"I think you should get on with the play." The leaner gentlemen sneered.  Nicolò disguised his chuckle as a cough.

"Yes, er" Shakespeare motioned for the play to continue with a flourish of his hand. "From the top!"

“To be, or not to be,” the actor began.

"To be!" The first of the gentlemen from earlier called out, his voice wavering with every word while his companion could only grimace beside him. "Or, not to be. Come on Hamlet, buck up!"

Nicolò covered his mouth with his hand as Shakespeare approached again. Trying and failing to suppress the laughter bubbling from his lips. "I told you I wasn't your only fan." He teased.

Shakespeare rolled his eyes. "Spare me,  Nicolò , please. My pride can only take so many hits in one day."

Nicolò gripped at his friend's shoulders and grinned at him. "Give it time, my friend, others might still gain the enthusiasm that myself and that gentleman over there possess for your work."

Shakespeare sighed before moving on to complain to one of the market women who had wandered in selling fruit and nuts to the patrons. All alone now,  Nicolò finally had the chance to pay attention to the play. It was a compelling story: betrayal, ghosts, romance. Perhaps he could convince his companions to watch it before they left at the end of the month, just to give his friend a few more warm bodies in the audience.

His eyes once again fell to the two gentlemen from earlier, who were now holding a hushed conversation between themselves. He felt his eyebrows raise in disbelief. Earlier the paler one had claimed not to know who the other was, but it was clear that the opposite was true.  Nicolò hummed out of curiosity, but it wasn’t his business so he turned his attention back to the stage.

When it was all over, Yusuf was waiting for him at the entrance to the theatre.  Nicolò smiled at the sight of him and kissed his cheek when he was near enough, lingering just longer than was appropriate for that century. Yusuf's eyes twinkled mischievously when they separated. "Did you enjoy the play?"

"It could use a different cast," He replied, as they made their way back to the rooms they had rented for their time here. "Perhaps on that day, you, Andromache, and Quynh can join me to watch it again."

"I told you, amore," Yusuf said, "I prefer the comedies, besides, it didn’t look as if this one was a particular success."

Nicolò sighed, remembering the glum look on Shakespeare’s face when the play ended. “I don’t know, I think this one might turn out to be very successful. Just give it time.”

\---

**Paris, 1793. Joe.**

  
  


It was by sheer accident that Yusuf--now going by Joseph while they were in France--had been caught. 

They had been in the Americas, fighting against the British, whom Andromache still hated with a passion, when the murmurings of revolution in Paris began picking up. It didn't take much convincing for them to board the first ship back to Europe. 

At first they were just helping quell the riots in the streets and keeping the innocents out of harm's way whenever Robespierre's fanatical enthusiasts took to attacking members of the clergy in broad daylight. However, when the public executions began, most of Paris had hit a fever pitch of revolutionary fervor and Yusuf was taken after he had been spotted helping a few of the smaller, innocent, parish priests get to safety.

That was yesterday, now he was locked in the Bastille. After his captors had bolted the bars of his cell shut, Yusuf was overcome with a terror he thought he'd left behind with his mortality. With Quynh's loss still a fresh wound, the idea of imprisonment made his blood and sweat run cold. 

It didn't help that the idea of leaving  Nicolò alone, the duress and despair it would cause his beloved, if they were never reunited, caused Yusuf more pain than the idea of eternal incarceration. They had discussed it once, on the day Andromache had finally called off their decades-long search for their drowned companion. In the safety of their own bed  Nicolò nestled closer into Yusuf's chest and murmured "I would never stop searching for you, habibi. Never."

Yusuf had pulled him in tighter and nodded, "Nor I you, amore." The thought of losing  Nicolò alone was already too painful to put into words. "I promise you now, even if it takes centuries, or the rest of my immortal life. I would comb the world for you until we were reunited again."

He felt more than heard  Nicolò 's soft chuckle. The soft kiss to his chest, a light brush of lips on skin, he felt just as keenly. "Romantic,"  Nicolò said, voice growing softer as his breathing slowed.

That was almost a lifetime ago. Now, the cheering of the crowds outside his small cell drew his attention. The public executions were starting, again. Yusuf wondered if this would be his fate today. If so, it was certainly a more preferable outcome rather than being locked up forever. 

Perhaps if this was all that awaited him, then  Nicolò and Andromache might find his body and take it somewhere private for him to resurrect in peace. Perhaps--

"Please! No!"

The outcry from the cell beside his broke him from his thoughts. He knew a handful of them had been taken the night before, but majority were French clergymen and members of the bourgeoisie. The voice from the other side of the wall, however, was very distinctly English.

What's more, the man on the other side wasn't begging for his life, if anything he sounded frustrated and inconvenienced, which was what piqued Yusuf's curiosity the most. Without anything better to do, he pressed his ear against the stone wall and tried to listen. For now, the man was murmuring something that Yusuf could barely make out, but then--

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, Angel, only humans do that.”

Yusuf gave a start, that was a new voice, which didn’t sound like his cell neighbor or their French captors.

“Crowley!” The first man again, there was a beat of silence and then, “Oh good Lord.”

“What the deuce are you doing in the Bastille?” The second voice again, sounding almost bored, and the French captor from earlier wasn’t even speaking anymore. Yusuf wondered if he was replaced by this distinctly non-Frenchman. “I thought you were opening up a bookshop?”

“I was!” The first man replied, his voice turning a bit sheepish, “I got peckish.”

“Peckish?” The second man asked at the same time that Yusuf mouthed the word in confusion.

"Well if you must know, it was the crêpes," Came the reply, as if French pastry were an entirely logical explanation for risking one's life during a revolution. "You can't get decent ones anywhere but Paris. And the brioche."

"So you just popped across the Channel during a revolution, because you wanted something to nibble?" Yusuf couldn't help but side with this second Englishman. "Dressed like that?"

"I have standards." Yusuf couldn't contain his amused snort. Whoever this other man was, he sounded like a finicky little thing. What he was doing risking his life for pastry was beyond comprehension. "I heard they were getting a bit carried away over here but--"

"Yeah, this is not getting carried away," The other Englishman sounded almost bored now. "This is cutting off lots of people's heads very efficiently with a big head cutting machine. Why didn't you just perform another miracle and go home?"

"I was reprimanded last month. They said I'd performed too many frivolous miracles. Got a strongly worded note from Gabriel."

The conversation was taking a turn for the strange. Yusuf wondered if this really was some sort of a rescue or if perhaps the gentlemen in the next cell were actually insane. "Well you're lucky I was in the area." The bored gentlemen now said.

"I suppose I am. Why are you here?"

"My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance."

"So all this is your demonic work?"

"No! The humans thought it up themselves, nothing to do with me!"

That sealed the deal, Yusuf thought, he was overhearing a conversation shared between two insane inmates. The next sound he heard was the distinct clang and chink of iron cuffs falling to the ground. He felt his eyebrows raise in surprise. Did one of them break free of their shackles?

"Well I suppose I should say thank you for the, uh, rescue." The first gentlemen said. 

"Don't say that, if my people hear I've rescued an angel, I'll be the one in trouble. And my lot, do not send rude notes."

"Well, anyway, I'm very grateful. What about if I buy you lunch?"

"Looking like that?"

There was silence for a few moments, and Yusuf wondered if the two men in the next cell had been carted off to meet their makers silently. Instead, the next sounds that met his ears were more Frenchmen, taking someone away that quite distinctly did not sound like the Englishmen he had been spying on. 

There were a few more murmurs in the opposite cell that sounded like the two men but he couldn't make them out anymore, somehow the noise of his fellow inmates had picked up again, drowning out the sound. 

When he was sure that he couldn't hear them anymore, Yusuf heaved a sigh. Alone again. Outside, the sound of the guillotine slicing through flesh and bone seemed to overpower the cheers of the crowd and he already found himself detesting the thought of this most recent death.

Hurried footsteps caught his attention and he squared his shoulders. He'd died of a beheading before. He didn't like it then, and he was sure that he wouldn't now, even if it was done with a 'big head-cutting machine' as the Englishman from earlier had so eloquently put it.

Instead of French guards though, he was met with a pair of familiar blue eyes. Yusuf didn't even have time to feel relieved or smile before his cell door was opened and  Nicolò was kneeling in front of him, arms wrapped tightly around him.

His wrists were still in shackles so he couldn't hold his beloved like he wanted, but Yusuf bent his head and nestled it at the juncture of  Nicolò 's neck and shoulder. It took him the space of a few breaths to realize that  Nicolò was shaking, his breaths coming out quick. He was crying.

"Nico--"

"I told you. I told you I would never stop searching habibi."  Nicolò whispered, and Yusuf was once again brought back to that conversation they had decades past. 

"I knew you would find me."

\---

**St. James Park, London, 1862. Booker.**

Everything else considered, it was a beautiful English summer’s day, which was probably why Sebastien was in a bad mood. After his last child had died, curses and anger melding with his tears as he cursed Sebastien’s retreating form, he had withdrawn into a dark hole of self loathing for a few years, just because he knew he could. 

By all rights, he knew that his immortality wasn’t Andrea’s or Joseph’s or Nicholas’ fault. If anything, they were now the closest thing to family he had left. Still, that didn’t mean that he didn’t rage against them during those first few years after burying his youngest son. Cursed at them with everything he had after he tried time and again to kill himself.

Yet, even that wasn’t enough to dampen out the pain he felt. Eventually he did come to terms with the fact that Andrea was right. Keeping ties with his family did him more harm than good. Which was why he was here, in London waiting to meet up with the rest of them to begin the rest of his immortality trying to do good.

St. James Park was a favorite in the summertime apparently, everywhere he looked there were couples strolling arm in arm or families taking their children for a walk. It didn’t help improve his mood, and if he glared at the occasional happy family passing by he reasoned that they wouldn’t remember him anyway.

Andrea’s letter had told him to wait by the pond, and that they would be there in the afternoon, but only now did he realize that she never specified an exact time. He wondered if down the line he would eventually be the same. Whether in the blip of his long life, things like exact hours and minutes all just condensed together into general terms like ‘afternoon’ or ‘day’.

He tried to distract himself from such thoughts by taking stock of his surroundings, something he used to do back in Napoleon’s army. Amongst the families wandering around St. James’s he could make out one or two pairs of gentlemen who seemed to be holding clandestine meetings of their own. It was easy to spot once you knew what to look for: stiff body language, the obvious refusal to look at or acknowledge the other despite their mouths clearly moving in intense conversation. 

Across the pond, he spotted one such pair, one of them was dressed all in white and cream while the other was a looming figure in black with a top hat that only served to make him seem more intimidating. The difference was almost comical. Despite himself, Sebastien smirked.

It was too far away for him to actually hear what they were saying, but he watched in bored fascination as the gentleman in black handed a gentleman in white a scrap of paper. This seemed to cause a bit of an argument because they were openly addressing each other now. The gentleman in white’s eyes were opened wide in something like disbelief, or perhaps it was betrayal? Sebastien hadn’t quite mastered reading expressions yet.

“Hello Sebastien,” he turned at the sound of the voice. It was Andrea, looking innocuous in her own set of coat and trousers. Her hair was in a single plait that fell down past her chest. He chuckled darkly at the sight. Clearly being immortal meant losing all care for societal conventions.

“Andrea,” he said, as amiably as he could. Her expression was both hard and unreadable. Which was probably a kindness on her part, he wouldn’t know what to do if she had been sympathetic.

“Joseph and Nicholas?” He asked, turning his head to face the two gentlemen from earlier again. It seemed the argument had not gone well. The gentleman in white threw the earlier piece of paper into the pond before stalking off in a huff. 

Sebastien wondered, if he did the same to Andrea right now, would she let him leave? Or would she shoot him in the back and then just carry his corpse to wherever Joseph and Nicholas were to await his inevitable resurrection? 

“Nearby,” she replied. 

Sebastien nodded. Across the pond, the gentlemen in black was all alone now, staring sourly at the pond and the ducks swimming in the pond. Sebastien grimaced, then heaved a sigh. “You were right. What you said about it being a bad decision.”

Andrea simply nodded but she didn’t say ‘I told you so’ which was another kindness, he supposed. 

When he finally turned to face her properly, she was staring at him expectantly. “I don’t have to give up drinking, do I?” He asked, cracking what felt like his first genuine smile in years.

Andrea smiled too, wrapping an arm around his shoulders like an old friend and steering him away from the park. “I would be insulted if you did.”

\---

**Bonus. The South Downs, 2020. Nile.**

  
  


After they had burned their clothes, and washed the blood off. After Andy banished Booker off to a hundred years in exile, Nile found herself in a car with Andy, Joe, and Nicky, driving somewhere towards the south of England. 

Copley needed time to wipe scrub all the CCTV footage of the havoc they wreaked at Merrick Pharmaceuticals. Plus he also had to get rid of the physical evidence extracted from Nicky and Joe, not to mention effectively silence any personnel in the building who hadn’t gotten caught in the crosshairs of the fight. Suffice it to say, he had a lot of work to do in order to hold up his end of the bargain, and in not so many words he had insisted it was safer for them to remain in England until he had made sure all the bases were covered.

And since the Charlie Safehouse still had a damaged door and Booker’s blood all over one armchair and parts of the walls, they were on their way to what was apparently not a safe house, but one of the many properties Nicky owned across the globe. 

“Isn’t it dangerous for you to own property?” Nile asked, halfway through the drive. Andy was driving and Nile had called shotgun, which wasn’t really an issue since Joe and Nicky seemed more than happy to cuddle together in the back seat. “I mean, what about the paperwork?”

Nicky just shrugged. “Not unless you would know why anyone would want to target poor, old, widowed Edith McGowan, who has been living a reclusive life alone by the sea all her life.”

Beside him, Joe, who Nile thought had been asleep, chuckled.

Nile looked from Nicky to Andy in confusion.

Without looking away from the road, Andy managed a half smile. “None of the properties Nicky owns are in his name, or any of ours. He’ll invent a name when he buys the property, and then every sixty years or so he’ll arrange for the deed to transfer to a new person under a new name.”

Nile turns wide-eyed to Nicky who just shrugs again. “Doesn’t that get confusing though?” Nile said, “I mean, how do you keep track?”

“I have a life outside of warfare, Nile” Nicky said, his tone teasing. “Besides, I’ve heard that one must keep their mind sharp in old age, no?”

Joe couldn’t feign sleep anymore, bursting out laughing, the sound of it lifting everyone’s spirits.

When they reached the property, Nile was pleasantly surprised to find that it was a well-kept cottage, the kind where you’d expect homely grandma’s to live in as they spent their retirement years. The lawn looked like it could use a bit of TLC but the rest of the house looked to be in decent shape.

There were other cottages in the immediate area too, but the nearest one was about a ten minute walk, which meant that the place more or less all to themselves.

“How do you maintain it?” She asked Nicky as they made their way inside. All the furniture was covered in cloth and there was a fine layer of dust everywhere, but there were no holes on the ceilings or mildew on the walls and there were enough rooms for all of them which meant it was a step up from the Charlie Safehouse.

“Caretakers,” Nicky said casually, dropping his knapsack on the floor and testing to see if the electricity was working. It was. “Sometimes, depending on what country we are in for a mission, if we don’t have to leave right away and I have property in the area, I take time to visit and do a few repairs myself. Joe helps.”

“What he means is,” Joe said, whipping one of the protective covers off a sofa and unleashing a cloud of decades old dust into the air. “That Nicky likes to watch while I do all the manual labor.”

“Only because you’re so capable, habibi.” Nicky teased back.

“Okay.” Nile said, raising her hands and making a show of covering her eyes, “Not while there’s a third party present, please.”

“Cut her some slack, you two, she’s new.” Andy said, stomping past all of them and making a beeline for what Nile presumed to be the kitchen. “Nicky, tell me you have food in this house.”

“Sorry!” Nicky was helping Joe remove and fold all the furniture covers now, “I haven’t been back here since the forties, so I don’t think there’s anything. But there’s a village nearby and I am pretty sure they have a grocer there.”

“I can go buy food!” Nile volunteered, suddenly filled with an energy to help out in some capacity. She was just about to turn and leave when she was surprised by a knock on the door. 

Nile felt her entire body turn cold. From where they were standing, Joe and Nicky already had their guns trained at the door and Andy emerged from the kitchen, labrys at the ready. With a jerk of her head, Andy ordered Nile to open the door.

She took a deep breath, willing her expression into something that seemed normal and placed a hand on the door knob. “Who is it?” she called out. Her voice sounded okay to her ears.

“Oh! Hello!” A pleasant voice called out, it sounded male. “So sorry to come unannounced dear but we saw you move in and we just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood, as it were.”

Nile shared a confused look with the rest of her team before opening the door just a few inches to peer outside.

Standing in front of the cottage was a pleasant looking, man in a heavily outdated cream coat, vest, and trousers. His eyes were bluer than Nicky’s and his hair was the palest blonde Nile had ever seen. It was almost white in fact. Behind him was another man, leaner and taller, with a shocking head of red hair, dark sunglasses, and an outfit that looked like he had raided Mick Jagger’s closet. Neither of them seemed to be armed. 

Nile opened the door a little wider. “Can I help you?”

“Hello,” the paler man said, smiling beatifically. Nile was reminded of one of those door-to-door Christians back at home. He produced what looked to be a basket of fruit, cheese, and dried meat from behind him and held it toward her.

“Like I said me and my, er,” he threw a shy glance toward the man behind him and flushed a bit, “partner, well, we live just up the road and we saw you drive in, and there are so few people here this time of year so I thought we’d best introduce ourselves. It is the neighborly thing to do, yes?”

Nile stared at them both curiously, already mostly convinced that they posed no real thread. With the arm that was hidden by the door, she signaled for the rest of her team to stand down. “Right, uhm. Thanks. Sorry I didn’t catch your name?”

“Oh of course,” the first man said, “Well I suppose you may call me Mr. Fell, and over here is--”

“Crowley.” The other man said with a nod, “None of that mister business, Angel, you know it doesn’t suit me.” This last part he addressed to Mr. Fell.

“Just trying not to be too forward, my dear.” Mr. Fell said reproachfully, before turning back toward Nile. “Anyway, we brought some lovely cheese and meat for you here and those apples there, Crowley grew from our own yard!”

Nile caught how Crowley smiled a bit more fondly at Mr. Fell after that last sentence. She nodded and accepted the basket. At a glance it did seem to just contain meat, cheese, and fruit. “Thank you!” she said with a smile.

Mr. Fell’s answering smile was just as bright as earlier. “Right then! Well we’d best be getting along. Do feel free to drop on by for a spot of tea if you’d like!” He gave her a little wave and turned to leave, Crowley sauntering off beside him. 

Nile watched until they had turned at the path and were walking up the road and away from the cottage before she closed the door. For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she realized her mood had greatly improved after the whole exchange.

“Who was it?” Andy, Joe, and Nicky were already behind her, weapons stowed away but still poised for action. Nile showed them the basket of food.

“Neighbors!” She said thrusting the food into Nicky arms, the three other immortals peered curiously at the basket before finally relaxing their poses. Nicky, in particular, already seemed taken with the contents.

“Joe, look, I had no idea you could get Ragusano this far south in England.” He walked away toward the kitchen, Joe in tow.

Andy was still staring curiously at the door, Nile gave her a quick clap on the shoulder. “Looks like dinner’s solved for now. We can go into the village to check out the grocer’s tomorrow though.”

Andy finally turned to look at her and managed a smile of her own. “Sounds good to me, kid.”

_end._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Geek out with me in the comments to make my day!


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